


The Battle of Larsdalen

by Untherius



Series: Co-Sovereignty [5]
Category: Emberverse - S. M. Stirling, Howl Series - Diana Wynne Jones, Tangled (2010)
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-19
Updated: 2012-07-19
Packaged: 2017-11-10 07:30:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 16,205
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/463749
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Untherius/pseuds/Untherius
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As the Protectorate lays siege to Larsdalen, the Bearkillers and their allies try valliantly to defend in the face of certain defeat.  Both armies are taken completely by surprise when a third very small, but very powerful force crashes the party, quickly seizing control of the field.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Larsdalen  
March 9, CY 9, 2021 AD

“At them, MacKenzies!” yelled Juniper MacKenzie. She led the first charge at the Protectorate shield wall, vaguely aware of Sam's call to “let the grey goose fly” coming from behind her and the HISS of three back-to-back flights of arrows hurtling overhead toward her enemy. Reason told her she'd be resting in the Summerlands by noon. She still held out hope beyond hope that at least some of her...and Mike's...people would not only survive, but somehow manage to turn the whole thing around.

She rushed at the pikes protruding from between shields like a giant porcupine, the rest of her people just barely visible in her peripheral vision. “ _MORRIGU!!!_ ” she bellowed. One did not invoke the Dark One lightly. Juniper sensed some unearthly power rise up inside her as she hurled herself at the enemy. She quickly felt that same odd disconnect she'd experienced during one of those early battles, the sensation of almost observing herself in the act of fighting while some other unseen force directed her body. The sharply-rising noise of battle faded into the back of her consciousness as she launched into action.

She brought her buckler up, sweeping a pike aside to slip between it and its neighbor. Bringing the shield back across her body, she hooked it over the nearest Protectorate one and pulled back with her body weight. That force brought its holder off-balance and Juniper plunged her sword straight into his neck. The man pitched backward, blood choking off his scream, leaving a hole through which she could see another row of shields and, between those, at least one rank of cross-bowmen.

Without missing a beat, she swung her sword sideways in a down-and-up sweeping motion, coming up under the arm of the man to her right, slicing into the unprotected flesh of his armpit. He jerked backward as another blade rang jarringly off Juniper's helm.

* * *

Chuck Barstow nearly kept up with his Chief as he charged the enemy, legs pumping like pistons. He swept his great war axe down, cracking a pike haft, then transferred the momentum into a sideways swing, taking out its wielder's leg. Chuck moved aside as the man fell, then stepped onto his body to cleave the head off another, feeling the axe head bite into the collarbone of a third. The wet crunch of cloven tendon, ligament, and bone vibrated up his arm as gobbets of blood splattered all over him, its iron tang odor filling his nostrils. He ignored the metallic taste lingering on his tongue from the bit of it that had entered his mouth as he wrenched his axe free and, pushing that man backward, narrowly missed a cross-bow bolt as he pivoted for another strike.

* * *

Mike Havel led his A-Listers toward the Protectorate shield wall. “Haakaa paalle!” they yelled as they slammed into the line of enemy shields, broke through, and came around behind it. As planned, his horses beat down that line, then fell back rather than engage the second line of pike. Enemy cross-bow bolts hurtled after the horses, taking a few of his men...and women...down. Most of the fallen hit the ground hard. Some lay still, while others writhed screaming, pawing futily at the wooden rods sprouting from places they couldn't quite reach.

Mike winced, then gave the command to regroup. They'd lost a few—not quite as many as he'd expected, but there was still no way the Bearkillers would survive, let alone win, continuing to take losses like that. He considered sending the militia, but he needed their pike to repel the inevitable Protectorate cavalry response. He also had to cover his field medics while they cleared the dead and wounded from the field. Where the hell were the Corvallans? He, the MacKenzies, and Mt. Angel had no hope of pulling this off without them. If they didn't get here soon...like, within the hour...he and Juniper's folks would have no choice but to take refuge within Larsdalen.

Mike disliked that idea, as it would mean a siege situation and he had it on good authority that sieges seldom went well. While Ken's engines were superior to Arminger's, Arminger had more of them. In addition, the Protectorate forces could easily wait him out. Furthermore, if Arminger ordered a foot-soldier advance on the wall, his own people would be cut off. Mike and his allies could retreat up the slopes on either side, but he doubted Arminger would give the order to follow. Such an action would likely end in a stalemate at best and leave the citadel essentially defenseless at worst. His adversary was an asshole to be sure, but he wasn't a moron.

* * *

Ten brutal minutes later, the MacKenzies and Bearkillers had nearly cleared the first rank of Protectorate footmen, but at a cost they all knew they couldn't possibly sustain. Without warning, one by one, Protectorate soldiers rapidly stopped what they were doing to look upward and the battle ground to a screeching halt. For several pregnant moments, the only sounds were the creaking and clanking of leather and armor and the screams and moans of the wounded.

Chuck and the MacKenzie gazed upward together, following their opponents' gazes.

“Well,” said Juniper, visibly impressed, “I have no idea who's doing that or how, but someone has a flair for the dramatic, sure.”

* * *

Will Hutton rode up to Mike, as he was preparing for the second engagement. “How's it look, boss?” he asked.

“Shitty,” replied the Bear Lord curtly. “How do you think?”

“It can't be that...bad....” Will's voice trailed off as he noticed everyone, friend and foe alike, looking skyward. He and Mike followed their gaze.

“What the hell?” said Mike.

“Damned if I know,” replied Will.

* * *

Norman Arminger stood at a table, both hands braced against its edge. He peered at a large, hand-drawn map of the area. It had been rather hastily produced, but was still accurate enough to be satisfactorily effective. Its surface was peppered with markers representing military units, painted in different colors to indicate not only the different Protectorate divisions, but also those of the various factions of his enemy.

He was still quite tense. Though he felt nearly as calm as he usually did, he could still sense an unbalanced amount of aggression boiling just under the surface of the back of his mind. It bothered him to the point of distraction.  


Suddenly a man-at-arms burst through the front door. “My Lord!” he said, his voice agitated.

“Yes, what is it?” said Arminger impatiently. Whatever it was, it didn't sound good.

“There's a message for you, my Lord.”

Arminger extended his hand, expecting a paper or some-such.

“Um...forgive me...it's...not something that can be brought in here. I'm afraid you'll have to come see it for yourself...Sir.”

The Lord of Portland rolled his eyes. “Very well.” He followed the man out of the Bearkiller building they'd commandeered as a base of operations, Sandra and Grand Constable Conrad Renfrew right behind him.

Everyone outside on the graveled area between the cluster of small buildings was looking skyward. Norman's boots thumped hollowly on the porch boards and then gave way to the crunch of gravel underfoot as he followed his underling to where he stopped a few meters away from the building. He followed their gaze, his eyes widening.

“What the f**k?” said Renfrew.

Far above, words had been scrawled across the sky in what looked like dark orange flame that contrasted well with the light grey of the early spring cloud-cover. Arminger read them aloud. “Norman Arminger...this is your third and final warning...yield now, or be destroyed.”

His eyes narrowed and he turned to the man who'd brought the message to his attention. “Send in the Mollala destriers.”

“My Lord?”

“Do as I say!” he barked.

“Yes, my Lord.” The man bowed, turned, and trotted off to execute Arminger's orders.

Norman watched as a few minutes later, a thousand horses began to move. Another man pointed to the sky and the Armingers again looked. The words had changed. “Don't say we didn't warn you!” he read.

“Crush them!” he growled and turned to storm back into the building.

* * *

Mike heard the call almost before saw them.

“Mo-la-lla!”

“Ah, hell,” he muttered. He knew all too well what that cry meant. Sure enough, he could see a line of easily several hundred of the Protectorate heavy horse galloping in his direction. His own horse could repel a pike line, or ride down cross-bow, or meet a cavalry charge, but not all at the same time. They were well and truly hosed.

“Lord Bear!” cried one of his men, “Sir, more riders!” The man indicated their rear flank.

“About time the Corvallans showed up,” said Mike, his eyes still on the Protectorate line.

“Um...Mike?” said Will uncertainly, also looking behind them. “It ain't the Corvallans.”

“What?” said Mike, twisting around in the saddle, then maneuvering his horse to give himself a better view. He peered toward the hill behind them at six riders closing fast.

Even at that distance, Mike could tell the riders were standing on their mounts. The animals themselves ran on two legs, their bodies held near to horizontal. And he could make out red, purple, and green armor with splashes of yellow. That was about all. “Who the hell are they?” he wondered aloud.

“Never mind who they are,” said Will, “what are they riding?”

Mike looked sharply at his horse-master. “I thought you knew everything there was to know about anything that could be ridden.”

“So did I,” admitted Will, “but I've never seen one of those before in my life...not in person, not in a photo or a drawing. Whatever they are, they're fast! I reckon they'll hit us at least thirty seconds before the destriers do.”

Mike muttered a string of curses under his breath, then turned to another man. “Lieutenant! Signal 'Square!'”

The man raised a bugle and blew the requested combination of long-and-short blats. Havel watched as his men—including the warrior monks from Mt. Angel who'd placed themselves under his command--reformed into several squares, which were more like rectangles.

“Are you sure you want to do this, Mike?”

“Hell, no,” replied the Bear Lord, “We're screwed anyway, but I'll be damned if I'm going to get it up the ass, too. And there might be more of them...” He nodded toward the newcomers, who were starting to spread out, evidently aiming to hit several points along the entire line.

Enemy cross-bows continued to shower the Bearkillers with bolts, answered by his own cross-bow and MacKenzie long-bows. While it was anyone's guess as to who was coming out ahead in that exchange, Mike was willing to put his money on the MacKenzies. While there were far more Protectorate bows, the MacKenzies were frighteningly good with theirs. Now and then, a new voice added a scream to the others, though it was hard discern to which army that voice belonged. He was slightly relieved when the Protectorate pike held back, though he knew it was to allow the approaching destriers to pass.

Off toward town the wall, Mike could see siege engines exchanging fire, Protectorate ground troops beginning to move toward the citadel and...ah, crap...siege towers. He hoped Ken had his ducks in a row and that Arminger hadn't come up with any meaningful countermeasures.

“Mo-la-lla!” came the enemy cry again.

To Mike's surprise an answering cry came from the newcomers. _“CO-RO-NA!_ ” _Corona?_ thought Mike. _Who, what, or where is Corona?_ Whatever it was, though there were only a half-dozen voices, the air itself seemed to vibrate with the sound of it. Then whatever they were riding made some sort of bugling sound...at least, Mike _thought_ it came from them. It reminded him of what might happen if one were to mix the calls of elk, bear, cougar, and bighorn sheep. He'd never heard anything quite like it. It made his hair stand on end, though in a good or bad way he couldn't really tell.

* * *

Sorshun, Tahundron of the lothnellir, ran toward the scrimmage line, his kairinon—brother-in-arms was the closest English equivalent—Eugene Fitzherbert riding upon his back. He deeply resented being ridden...all his kind did. Over the last half-decade, they'd learned to live, work, and fight alongside the humans and Ingarians. It surprised him a little that he'd been the one to suggest the current mode of transportation...but woe to anyone who tried to steer him!

While the humans had excellent balance, mostly from untold hours of training and practice, he and his kin still had to hold back. Even at half speed, they'd still reach the line well before the horses coming at them from across the field. He heard the enemy yell something about Molalla...yes, that was one of the Protectorate territories, so those fighters must have come from there. Not that it mattered to him. The enemy was the enemy and the humans would sort out the politics later.

The humans he and his kin carried answered with their own cry, invoking the name of their kingdom, Corona. He liked the sound of it, personally. For effect, he tilted his head back and bugled...at least, that was what the humans called it.

Then he turned his attention to the task at hand, aligning his mind with both his body and his surroundings, and making passive note of everything from his skin out. Over his still-unshed winter coat, he wore what the humans called a complete set of Inka fiber armor, tightly-woven out of a blend of plant and animal fibers. On top of that, he wore full, articulated titanium plate armor. By itself, it would have given him excellent protection, though its light weight would do little to absorb the kinetic impact of a blow, which would fortunately be handled by the fiber and fur beneath it. Not much would get through all of that in any case. Still, he would never have tolerated the weight of steel, regardless of how much easier it was to extract, smelt, and work. He was very grateful the battle wasn't taking place in late summer.

The whole thing had been initially very uncomfortable and if he hadn't had all that fur over his skin, he was quite sure it would have itched more than his annual molting and that by itself was enough to drive him crazy some years. Surprisingly, and as the human had assured him, he quickly grew accustomed to the extra weight and the way the armor system wore about his body, right down to the slightly jarring tugs and muffled clanking sounds it made with each footfall.

He felt his great feet pummel the soggy ground, legs driving him forward, pounding like a pair of hammers. He flexed his forearms, each as large as a human leg, in preparation for the engagement. He had little fear, having fought much more dangerous foes, though he was ever-mindful that he should never underestimate an adversary, no matter how strong or weak they appeared to be.

In his peripheral vision, he noted his kin spreading out to engage the entire line as planned. Neither their would-be allies, nor their opposition would understand the maneuver until he, his kin, and their kairini had struck and then it would be too late.

He watched the human defenders reform part of their line, probably expecting him to attack from their rear. He adjusted course slightly in order to pass between two blocks of Bearkiller soldiers. A lone man on horseback, wearing something on his helm that looked like an animal head, stood his ground, then drew a sword. That must be the Bear Lord...he'd better get out of my way, thought Sorshun. Running down the leader of the people whose enemy he aimed to eliminate would surely be regarded as a bad move.

Sorshun felt Eugene's weight shift a little and he hoped it was because he was making large 'get-out-of-the-way' gestures. The Bearkiller Lord apparently got the hint, though it was unclear whether it was in response to Eugene's attempt at non-verbal communication, or the fire that suddenly erupted from every wooden part of every Protectorate weapon up and down the entire line and within fifty meters of it.

The man in Sorshun's way looked back and forth rapidly, then quickly directed his horse in a sideways motion. It was none too soon, for Sorshun was barely ten meters and a few seconds from him when he did. He hurtled past the Bear Lord and between the blocks of Bearkillers. He abruptly shifted his weight backward, digging his feet into the ground, his back claws leaving huge furrows in the muddy earth, and lowered his head. It took a little longer than he'd expected to slow enough to allow the Coronan King to safely dismount, a maneuver that was little more than a hop from Sorshun's back and literally onto the nearest Protectorate pike-man. No sooner had he felt Eugene's weight relieved, than he reared up again, regained his stride, and plowed headlong into the enemy line.

* * *

Mike Havel watched as the large, unidentified animal charged toward him. Its rider waved frantically, apparently trying to tell Mike something. Motion to his left caught his attention and he turned to see what had caused it. He did a double-take as all up and down the line, everything wooden held by every Protectorate soldier abruptly burst into flame. He looked back toward the right and nudged his horse out of the way just in time.

The armor-clad beast hurtled past him. He couldn't be sure, but it almost looked like a furry dinosaur. But that was impossible. It had the massive, powerful legs, and the sturdy tail of a dinosaur. But its arms were much larger and it had horns like a ram's.

Mike had barely enough time to note the purple-lacquered plate armor worn by its rider and the yellow sun prominently displayed upon his chest plate. The man wearing it looked vaguely familiar. The Bear Lord watched as the animal dropped down, unloaded its rider, and set up on the Protectorate soldiers with such savage aggression as Mike had never seen.

No sooner had the animal passed, then fire sprang up from the ground not three yards from his own horse. Further down the line, something that looked just like a wall of ice rose up from the ground and surged along the inside of the wall of fire, replacing it as it spread, rapidly surging along the ground until, as near as Mike could tell, it encircled the entire Protectorate force.

More fire erupted all over the field within the ice wall, seething back and forth like a living thing, washing over the enemy in one place, and around them in another, flaring up one instant and dying back the next.

From the apparent source of the ice wall, a sheet of ice spread out across the ground. Protectorate men slipped on it and fell in their attempts to fight back or escape.

“Is it just me,” said Will, “or are they holding back?”

“Now that you mention it,” said Mike, “it's like they're trying to break the Protector's men instead of just killing them. If they're that powerful...” He cursed, then turned to his Lieutenant. “Signal, 'Drop back and hold!' Do not, I repeat, _do not_ , engage the newcomers!”

The man executed the order and Mike watched in satisfaction as his men complied, which he guessed they were all too willing to do.

“Um...Mike?” said Will nervously.

“Yeah?”

“Am I the only one who's more scared of the newcomers than I was of the Protector a minute ago?”

“Nope. But they don't seem to be interested in us and I'd very much like to keep it that way.”

“You'll get no argument from me,” said Will, shaking his head slowly.

* * *

Ken Larsson stood atop the Larsdalen wall. He would have liked to have stood back and watched the action. In a way, it would have reminded him of the old pre-Change war movies. The knot in his stomach kept him grounded in time and place, reminding him of the life-and-death struggle before him. As if the barrage of enemy artillery weren't reminder enough. Instead, he made laps, supervising the several engines mounted on the towers and the few stationed behind the wall, all the while trying to ignore both his bodily discomfort—his hand, though severed a good decade before, still ached most days, and his armor was uncomfortable—and his nagging fear. The units out on the field would have to manage themselves.

He noted that the Protectorate engines were more or less copied right out of Medieval documents with a few minor modifications. Ken shook his head slowly, even as he dodged another flaming ball of tar—that one had been too close—and listened as the people behind and below him shouted and yelled and screamed. The acrid stench stung his nostrils and made his eyes burn. He didn't dare wipe them—even if he hadn't been wearing a light gauntlet on one hand and his hook on the other, a bare hand would surely have smeared sweat into his eyes, making the burning worse. Instead, he pulled a rag out of a pocket and dabbed at his eyes and forehead with it. While Arminger might not have been terribly imaginative, he was still effective, Ken mused as the wall shook under another impact. That wall was thick and it would take a beating, but not indefinitely.

Ken's engines, on the other hand, were designed more or less from scratch. They took cues from Medieval forms, of course, but the Bearkiller Chief Engineer's in-depth knowledge of physics and engineering gave his creations a definitive edge over his opponent in terms of range, accuracy and payload. Unfortunately, Arminger had at least thrice as many engines and the ones intended to get up-close and personal—like those siege towers still approaching—were well-armored. Ken was relieved that Arminger apparently hadn't bothered with a battering ram. While it would have been useless against Larsdalen's rolling steel gate, the Lord of Portland was sure to have one anyway, if for no other reason than on general principle.

Ken still made his laps. His crew chiefs were A-Listers chosen for their aptitude in the areas of mechanics and engineering, a few of whom had worked or studied in those fields before the Change. Most of their crews, however, were militia and had been minimally drilled. He could see the fear in their eyes and, quite frankly, he wasn't at all sure that same fear wasn't visible in his own as well. He could at least act like it wasn't and maybe that would be good for something.

“Sir!” called one of his chiefs, pointing at the scrimmage line off to the right.

Ken followed her gaze to where several large fires had erupted up and down the line. Or, rather, it may have been a single fire stretched out as though a moat of oil had been ignited. But he knew for certain that neither the Bearkillers nor their allies had implemented any such thing. “Damn him! Bastard's napalming his own men now!”

“Uh...sir? Then why aren't _our_ people on fire?”

Ken looked more closely, then pulled a pair of field glasses out of a padded pocket to peer out. “What the...?”

Details that had before been obscured by the distance jumped into focus in the magnification. Every combustible Protectorate weapon had caught fire, their wielders quickly dropping them all up and down the line. There was no discernible source. Each weapon had, so far as Ken could tell, spontaneously combusted.

More fire sprang up from the ground. The peculiar thing about it was that it seemed more like a wall and less like the result of something flammable having been lit. Whatever it was, it formed a perimeter perfectly spaced between the Bearkillers and the Protectorate, as though someone knew exactly where each army would be at that moment.

Even more baffling were the several newcomers who'd arrived on strange-looking mounts. All but two of them held in each hand something that appeared to be wreathed in flame, a something they wielded like mass weapons.

He handed the glasses to his chief. “Take a look and tell me what you see.”

The A-Lister did as requested. “Huh,” she said after a minute as she lowered the glasses and moved to hand them back. “I guess the MacKenzies have flame-throwers.”

“Look again,” said Ken nervously.

The woman complied. “I'm looking for what, exactly, sir?”

“If those people out there are using flame-throwers, you tell me where their apparatus is.”

After a moment, the chief spoke. “I don't see any. Maybe they salvaged some micro-something-or-other?”

“Look again. Notice...no tanks, no hoses, no delivery system.”

“You're right, sir,” the woman said, surprise in her voice. “It looks like it's...coming _out ___of them!”

“And not in a stream, either,” added Ken. “And look at the fire itself.”

“Yeah, it's a bit...odd, isn't it?”

“Not like any fire I've ever seen.”

“Then what is it?”

“It's not a combustion fire, I'll tell you that much. It looks more like...plasma.”

The woman looked sharply at Ken. “Plasma? Sir, I barely remember what that is.”

“It's hotter than a gas, for one thing.”

“What can produce plasma? I mean, besides a plasma cutter, but those haven't worked since the Change.”

“The sun,” said Ken, “and that looks an awful lot like photos I've seen of solar plasma.”

“What?! Who can handle solar plasma and where and how would they get it?”

“Beats the shit out of me,” said Ken, once again aware of how many of his boss's unfortunate expressions he'd acquired.

“Well, whoever they are, I don't think we want them mad at us.”

“Yeah,” said Ken pensively.

“Sir, what's that?” The A-lister pointed at something out on the field. “That sparkling...whatever.” She lifted the field glasses again. Several moments later, “Sir?” She handed him the glasses. “Is that...ice?”

Ken looked himself. “I'll be damned,” he said. One of the newcomers stood just inside the ring of fire, both arms held out away from the body. From each side, what did appear to be ice sprouted up from the ground, looking much like footage he'd seen pre-Change showing crystal formation sped-up for educational purposes.

Only what Ken saw was in real-time. Ice grew up from the ground at an impossible speed, rippling along the ground, heaving soil aside as it did, topping out at nearly head-height in moments, a myriad of sturdy icicles pointing toward the Protectorate forces. The ring of fire subsided as the ice wall spread. It surged toward the road, tearing through—or maybe around—the base of the nearest siege tower, coating its wheels in ice and stopping it in its tracks, before racing along toward Zena Rd.

“Correction,” he said grimly, “we _definitely_ don't want them mad at us.”

A loud, metallic noise startled both men and Ken nearly dropped the field glasses. “Now what?” The siege tower, which had been menacingly fine moments ago, now looked like it had been hit by a very large wrecking ball. Its frame was bent about halfway up and the metal plating on the front was buckled outward. The rest of the damage—apparently having been delivered from somewhere behind the tower, rather than from one of Ken's field engines--wasn't visible from the wall, but the top half of the tower was definitely leaning back and several men were visible lying on the ground, apparently having been knocked from a platform.

Another loud bang sounded and the tower abruptly bent even more. More men fell out and Ken could hear screaming. A minute later, he noticed a ripple in the air, one that looked a lot like the distortion from a sonic shock-wave, followed by a third bang. The tell-tell screech and moan of twisting, bending metal mixed with shouting and screaming men as Ken watched the whole thing topple over with a loud crash.

Beyond it, a trebuchet arm shattered mid-throw, dropping its load and throwing large shards of wood in every direction. “Oh, hell,” said Ken, then he whirled around. “ _HOLD!_ ” he bellowed. 

* * *

Sorshun ran into...or, rather, over...the Protectorate shield wall--or what was left of it after men had dropped their flaming pikes and shields--colliding at a roughly forty-five-degree angle. He felt and heard the impact of metal-on-metal as he effortlessly kicked men out of his way and ran them over, their helms thudding against his chest and leg plating. It was unclear how many of those were enemy blades trying to kill him and how much was his armor impacting theirs, for it all bounced off. He did, however, note the difference between screams of pain and cries of alarm. That was all well and good, for he had not yet begun to fight.

He leaned sideways into the line of men and pushed with his legs, easily knocking them over like so many tin soldiers. He felt some variation in his footing as he trod on a couple of them that had fallen to the ground, though he knew not if they were already dead. Not that it mattered, for his job was fairly straightforward...hit the enemy as hard and as fast as he could, his capacity for which was considerable.

He pivoted to the left, his great tail sweeping right and catching more enemy soldiers, sending them sprawling to the ground. The impact took some of the force of his momentum, but he was prepared for that, leaning into the spin and arcing around to hit the soldiers who'd previously been on his left, knocking at least a half-dozen of them to the ground. He grabbed the nearest soldier with a fore-paw, hooking his claws into the man's hauberk and ignoring his flailing and yelling.

He turned again, hurling the man toward the next line of what used to be pike before charging them himself. He broke through that one effortlessly, then spun to the left as before. He laid into it, again forcing his tail around in an arc, a few men clinging to it, then smashing into the backs of the men who'd moments before been on his left.

He picked up another two squirming men, one with each arm, and used them as weapons. He swung them back, forth, and around, clobbering their fellows with them. Several more foot-soldiers rushed him, shields up and swords drawn. Sorshun swung one of the men he held and his target ducked. He let go of his de-facto weapon, who went cartwheeling through the air, and punched the swordsman in the face, feeling the shattering of bone as the front of the man's skull caved in like a watermelon.

He dodged another's sword, but caught a second blow on his upper left leg. He dropped the man he was holding onto another one and brought his elbow back. It connected with another satisfying crunch and that man fell back screaming. He kicked at a third, his middle toe claw ripping through links of maille as though it were cheap nylon and into the soft abdominal flesh beneath, a small fountain of blood and peritoneal fluid gushing through the fresh gap in fabric and steel.

He grabbed the last man standing, hurled him at the line of erstwhile cross-bowmen, sending several men sprawling in a heap of flailing limbs. Motion to his right turned into a trio of pike-men, their side-arms drawn. He raised one leg and slammed his foot into the chest of the center-most one, feeling the deformation of armor vibrate up through his leg. Then he quickly swept his foot left and right, knocking the other two off their feet before returning it forcefully to the ground.

The rumble of hooves caught his attention and he smiled to himself. He'd been very much looking forward to dealing with horses. He supposed they were magnificent creatures in their own right, but dumb as posts, despite how much the humans insisted to the contrary. Fortunately, they were also quite tasty...too bad he'd have to wait a little while to savor one.

“Mo-la-lla!” came the riders' cry again. He felt at his back the heat from an erupting fire-wall that suddenly sprouted up along the entire line and saw the approaching horses begin to falter in their charge. Two thousand pounds of horse, rider, and their armor didn't stop quickly. Sorshun would have watched as some of them skidded helplessly into the flames, but he'd have to settle for hearing it. For the present, he had a lot more work to do.

Sorshun locked eyes with the nearest rider, then reared up to his full height. The man's eyes went wide. Even mounted, a six-foot-tall man was still a little below eye-level with him. In addition, Sorshun out-weighed the horse plus its rider plus their combined armor by a good three hundred pounds and that was without including his own. One way or another, that horse was coming down. For that matter, Sorshun was pretty sure he could stop a  
charging rhinoceros—not quickly, but he could do it.

He returned to the ready position momentarily, then sprang forward, the distance between him and the line of still-moving horses closing in seconds. He grabbed a horse by the head, digging his feet into the ground, forced it upward and took a bite out of its throat. The animal squealed in agony, its blood spraying in great gushes. He could feel the sticky, red fluid plastering his snout and trickling down his throat as he took a great drink of it. It was deliciously sweet...the Protectorate apparently fed their animals very well. He shoved it sideways and let go, the whole thing crashing to the ground. He reared up again, his fore-paws and face now covered with blood—which was just as well, for the humans had a thing about blood, regardless of what creature had shed it.

He swept his tail at the horse to his right, tripping it. He felt, rather than heard, the dull snap of breaking bone, followed by a squeal and shout as that animal and its rider went down. More screams of man and beast rose up as some slid into the fire-wall. The chaos intensified as more lances and wooden shields suddenly went up in flames, the odor of burning flesh beginning to drift through the air. Sorshun was fairly sure it would fill the valley in rather short order.

Horses panicked and tried to bolt, even as their riders dropped, or attempted to drop, flaming gear. Some ran head-long into the ice wall that had replaced the fire--or tried to jump it--others in some other random direction. Horses really were quite pathetic, thought Sorshun as he charged the nearest one.

He planted a foot against one's side, sinking his claws into its flesh and pinning the rider's leg to it. The horse squealed as Shorshun forced it over, then jumped over it to face another. It reared up, hooves pawing the air like a pair of sledge hammers. Sorshun grabbed both legs at mid-cannon with his fore-paws, claws sinking into flesh. He wrenched sharply sideways, effortlessly blowing out both its knees and shoving the animal against another, knocking it off-balance before turning to plant a toe-claw into the underbelly of a third.

He grabbed its rider, plucking the man from the saddle as his horse fell. He hurled the man at an approaching knot of foot-soldiers and they all went down in a clatter of armor.  
Another horse reared up on his left and he ducked between its front legs, ramming its chest with his own horns. He pushed up and back, driving the horse up and over its own back-side. Just before it could fall, Sorshun stepped back, grabbed the animal on both ends of its barrel and shoved it onto another horse, his claws coming away dripping red.

* * *

Eugene Fitzherbert vaulted from Sorshun's back, both frying pans drawn. They were of a modified design that both he, his wife, and their progeny had spent many decades refining. Instead of traditional cast-iron, they were forged of a different steel alloy that struck a much better balance between mass, strength, and flex. The balance and weight had been shifted to make better use of fore-arm strength, resulting in something that was more oval and much shallower, almost blade-like, but still quite thick, while maintaining the interior depression that was quite capable of stopping an opponent's blade tip. The handles were much thicker to allow for better and more stable grasping while in motion and counter-weighted on the non-business end.

Eugene landed with both feet square on the chest of a pike-man, riding the man's torso as his momentum carried them both to the ground. He swung both pans out to the side in mid-fall, striking two men in the neck, the crack of bone vibrating up both arms. He kept his knees flexed to absorb the impact as his body weight crushed the soldier's sternum and rib-cage as they hit the ground and immediately spun around, taking one man in the face with one pan and deflecting a sword strike with the other, the blade sliding neatly off the bottom before Eugene slammed it edge-wise into that man's neck.

Eugene caught another blade point in the corner of a pan and forced it back toward its wielder, knocking him off-balance and struck another upside the head with the other pan. Using the recoil from the first parry, he spun around, ducked under a sword thrust and cracked its wielder's ribs while dislocating another's knee with the opposite pan.

He looked up just in time to see the Molalla destriers bearing down on him. He quickly made mental notes of the locations of every opponent within striking distance, then whirled around. He placed himself deftly between two horses, sweeping both pans outward to catch each horse in a front leg. Both connected with a violent crack. He let the force move the pans across his body, then ducked a sword arc and extended the pans again to hit the horses' rear legs. The animals squealed and fell toward each other, horses and riders rolling over one another in a heap.  


Eugene spun around again and charged the line of cross-bowmen whose weapons had been turned into charcoal moments before. They drew side-arms and rushed at him in return. 

* * *

Rapunzel Firewalker Fitzherbert-Corona crouched in delicate balance upon Leihara's back. She carefully split her attention between the physical and the mental. She'd practiced to the point that the physical had become automatic. She stretched out with her mind, feeling for the thermal signatures of every object, living and not, over the entire field, focusing on those that would most immediately concern her. She felt the Sun-blood, that great, seething source of her power, roiling just beneath her consciousness. She tapped into it and let its power flow through her.

The frying pans she held burst into flame, or so it would appear to any observer who didn't know better. With the effortlessness that came with many years of practice, discipline, and experience, she ignited every wooden weapon borne by every Protectorate soldier within a hundred yards of the line. She watched from her moving perch as her enemies quickly dropped the newly-offending tools of their trade.

Leihara dug her feet into the soft earth, slowing rapidly, and Rapunzel leaped from her back, feeling fire erupting from around her own body. She saw the terror in her opponents' eyes as she bore down upon them. She would have to land with care. While her bare feet bore the formidable shoe-leather calluses they always had, they could still be cut on bits of armor, broken bone, or the edge of a blade.

For good measure, she forced the fire outward from her, incinerating everything within a twenty-meter semi-circle with a good three thousand degrees of heat. Her opponents weren't exactly defenseless, for each had a side-arm blade, so she wasn't exactly attacking an unarmed foe, but neither could the Protectorate soldiers facing her possibly stand against her.

Her friend Howl had once told her that she had the potential to be the most dangerous person in the Universe. At the time, she'd laughed at him—not out of derision, but because she'd fancied his assessment to be ridiculous, silly, laughable, and several other similar things. Four centuries later, she knew he'd been right. She'd long ago embraced her destiny as a formidable warrior-queen.

So hot did her fire burn and so quickly did it consume her targets, that none of the men she'd just slain had time to scream. She cleared the fire and allowed Leihara to engage the enemy to the right before resuming her assault. Several pike-men rushed at her, blades drawn. She thrust her pans toward them, fire leaping off of them like water and consumed them, their armor dropping to the ground around their sizzling skeletons.

She swept her pans sideways and fire erupted out of them in sweeping arcs resembling solar flares that swept like waves over a line of crossbowmen. Then she heard the call of approaching cavalry.

“Mo-la-lla!” they bellowed.

She felt a fire-wall erupt behind her and smiled to herself. She didn't have to look at it to know it was strong enough to discourage her would-be allies from interfering, but not strong enough to obscure their view of the carnage she and her people had just begun to wreak upon Arminger's army. Rapunzel's granddaughter Catherine was operating the fire-wall—which took the form of a long, hyrda-like pyroform that ebbed and flowed like a living thing--and she'd know when to flare up certain sections to deter most of the enemy from escaping long enough for her niece Reginleif to grow the impenetrable ice wall that would replace it. The Coronan Queen whirled around briefly to gaze upon her granddaughter's work and Rapunzel smiled to herself before facing the enemy once more. Catherine did always have a flair for the artistic and Reginleif an eye for elegance, even more than Rapunzel herself and that was saying a lot.

She saw, heard, and felt the line of approaching horse begin to falter as they noticed the fire. She saw Leihara attack them to her right, Sorshun and Eugene far down the line and her other children and their kairini to her left. She detected movement to her right and left, waited a moment, then swung to the right, a flaming pan connecting with a helm. She poured heat into it until it glowed, its wearer screaming as the flesh burned off his head. She ducked a blade from another man and shoved another pan into his midsection, melting his maille and setting his gambeson on fire. That man at least had the sense to stop-drop-and-roll.

Turning her attention back to the approaching horse, she set fires under them. The beasts screamed, bucking about wildly, their riders trying desperately to remain mounted, to say nothing of retaining control of their animals. They were unsuccessful. One by one, equestrians flew, toppled, or in a few cases leapt from their horses, most being trampled or burned. Some retreated to regroup behind sword and steel shield, some rushed Rapunzel in a futile attempt to stop her. Those people quickly regretted their decisions as Rapunzel reduced them to cinders.

She sensed more movement behind her, more rapid this time, and she knew they were men trying to jump her from the rear. Without looking, she shoved another wave of plasma-fire in that direction, dampering it back just enough to give her would-be assailants enough time to scream before death took them.

Right on top of that, even more movement caught her attention, large and fast and clearly equine. There were eight of them and closing fast. She reached out with her mind and cooked six of their brains. They were close enough that she could hear the thudding sounds of the animals abruptly collapsing mid-stride. She whirled around to face the remaining two, towering over her, but reining up just the same.

She glared at them and they looked at each other nervously. Then one threw something at her. She dodged it. “You haven't learned, have you?” she said and heated his armor, raising it to red-heat in seconds. The man screamed, clawing frantically and futily at his own torso as his clothing started to burn, his horse panicking as it madly charged its neighbor, knocking it to the ground.

Rapunzel turned around again and continued to stalk across the field.

* * *

“Mo-la-lla!” Jabar Jones, Baron Molalla drew his sword as he led the charge. Two hundred destriers from his barony were behind him, the rest engaging the other newcomers or those strange animals they rode. Despite the the savagery of the enemy's most recent response following that inexplicable taunt of theirs, and despite the carnage he'd just seen them wreak upon those Protectorate soldiers already on the field, and despite that suspicious-looking fire-wall and wicked-looking ice wall rapidly replacing it, he was still as confident of victory as his Lord Protector. How hard could it be to crush a few people?

He focused on a lone figure in red armor. Seriously? Red? How much more could a person scream, “Make me your target?” As he closed, the figure turned toward him and he could see his...no, wait... _her_ more clearly. A girl? Not just a woman, but a _girl_! Baron Molalla did _not_ have his ass handed to him by a _girl_!

He spurred his horse into a full gallop, pulling ahead of the rest of his knights and men-at-arms. The girl confronting him stood her ground, holding what looked like frying pans out to her sides. Frying pans? This was getting better and better. Surely someone had exaggerated and that person would no doubt be given the rack and then some.

Suddenly, the pans erupted in fire. That was odd. She must have napalm hoses under that armor, though he was having trouble seeing them and he'd be damned if he knew how she was going to squirt it with a pair of frying pans. What happened next was barely believable.

The fire spewed out from the pans, not in streams like one would expect of napalm, but in sheets. The sheets of flame moved, ebbed, and flowed like living things and in a way that suggested they were being tightly controlled. Was that even possible _before_ the Change? Jabar didn't think so, but apparently this girl could.

The flame expanded and spread out along the ground, flowing under the horses. The beasts, including his own, squealed in pain and fear. He fought for control of the animal, but he could tell almost immediately that it was a losing battle. Rather than be thrown, which he knew full well would most certainly end badly, he chose to remove himself voluntarily. After all, he would be facing those flames one way or another and he'd rather do it on his own terms.

He hit the ground running, partly to get clear of the panicking equines and partly because he knew the best way to handle the heat was to keep moving. To his surprise, the fire seemed to be liquid and he could swear it actually splashed as he dashed through it. He responded by raising his steps high, as though he were running through snow, trying to minimize contact with it.

A dozen steps had him clear of the fire, though he wasn't sure how much of that was because he was moving or because it was. He was even less sure that it mattered. That girl's ass was his, in multiple senses of the word. He whirled about to check on his men, only to see to his horror that many of them were on fire and dancing about like idiots. He would have suggested stop-drop-and-roll, but that would have been futile in warfare, as almost all fire employed on the battlefield involved burning liquid and the flame now assaulting his men seemed to be no exception.

He charged the girl, intent only on maiming her so he could give her a piece of his mind—and body, as it were—before killing her. She contracted the flame—though it did little to mute the screams behind him and the smell of burning flesh hung strongly in the air—and met his charge. She neatly shed his first stroke with a pan and batted at the edge of his shield. She was strong, but he was stronger. He caught the blow and shoved back. To his surprise, she seemed to anticipate his move and responded by shifting her weight. The force of his shield blow threw him off balance.

She came around to his left and caught a pan behind his shield, adding to his momentum, then slammed the other into his back before stomping on the back of his knee with one foot and planting the other onto his back. Before he knew it, he hit the ground, tasting the slightly gritty mud between his teeth.

He rolled over, but immediately felt the girl's weight on his chest. He struck at her with his sword, but she deflected it with greater ease than he would have imagined. To his surprise, she hopped off him to stand a few feet away. He rolled up and bounced to his feet and into the ready position. In doing so, he noticed that the girl was barefooted. Who goes into battle barefooted?

“And you would be...?” she asked.

“Jabar Jones, Baron Molalla!” he answered, pouring as much bravado into it as he had.

“Ah, yes,” she replied dryly, “one of Norman's thugs and ruffians. So which are you?”

“Niether! I am a nobleman and Associate of the Protectorate!”

“Noble? I don't think so.”

Jabar hid a smile as one of his men crept up behind the girl and raise the pommel of his sword over her head. No sooner had the man begun his swing, than the sword glowed bright red. The man yelped, then grabbed at his sword hand with the other, shrieking in pain. He danced about, desperately clawing at his gauntlet.

“Seriously?” asked the girl. “Are you still resisting?”

“Enough! You're going to squeal,” he growled, “and I'm going to enjoy every minute of it!”

“Oh, no you're not,” countered the girl. “You've personally attacked a head of state. Never, in the history of the world, has that ever gone without consequence. If you surrender now, your trial _might __go in your favor...more or less. If not, then you will share the fate of those who continue to oppose us on this field.”_

Jabar stepped forward, roaring as he attacked. The girl met blade with pan. Instead of the expected _clang_ , Jabar's blade bent like putty. He stared at it, watching as half of it glowed and drooped.

The girl chuckled. “They say a man's sword reflects his manhood,” she said.

Fire erupted outward from the girl. It struck him like a wave. What happened next proceeded far too slowly than he'd have preferred. The flames flowed around his body like a liquid...not like a burning liquid, but as though the flame itself _were_ a liquid. It was hotter than he would have imagined.

He stopped dead in his tracks, but the fire continued to work on him. It flowed under his armor, chewing at his clothing, entering his nostrils and searing his nose, throat, and lungs. His screams caught in his throat, but his mind cried out in agony. He felt his eyes boil and burst. His skin cracked and peeled, exposing raw muscle. That, too, dried, cracked and peeled back layer by layer. His lungs burned up, the fire eating into his guts from the inside. His legs lost structural integrity and he barely felt his body collide with the ground. Miraculously, he could still think and hear, the girl's words cutting through his agony.

“Your misdeeds both before and since what you call the Change have reached our ears and we have seen their results with our own eyes. You have abused the power given you and squandered many opportunities oppose the brutality of your neighbors. You have been weighed...you have been measured...and you have been found most egregiously wanting. Not least have you, though on the field of battle, attacked a foreign queen. For all this, we, Rapunzel Firewalker, Konigin of Corona, execute you. May whatever deity you serve have mercy on your sorry excuse for a soul.”

The fire intensified and darkness took him. His body, like those of a few hundred others, was never identified with any certainty.

* * *

The word had been given. Morgan Jenkins was surprised that things had been progressing as quickly as they had. It was his first battle and he hadn't even seen many others, although both his father and the Fitzherberts assured him that some were resolved quickly, while others dragged on for days, sometimes weeks. Still, even Markl was impressed...or maybe Neil was just jumping the gun a little. In any event, it was time to go to work.  
He, Markl, and a half dozen archers stepped out of the maple grove in which they'd been hiding. That in itself had proven difficult, as it was still too early in the season for anything to have leafed out and the osoberry, vine maple, and poison-oak understory was still barely breaking bud, to say nothing of the bigleaf maple overhead. Fortunately, Markl knew a camouflage spell that, as Morgan's father Howl explained it, allowed light to bend around an object rendering it very difficult to see.

Morgan reached out with both hands and pulled them inward, gathering air. Strictly speaking, the motions were unnecessary for the working of magic, but they had a psychological effect and his father had taught him never to underestimate anything that had an impact on the otherwise largely mental exercise of wielding the dark energy that filled the universe.

He focused his will, gathering and compressing air next to his body in a way that was said to be otherwise impossible in the Shifted world. He pulled and stuffed, pulled and stuffed, until he felt it leaking out all over the place and making slight hissing sounds as it moved around his body. Then he adjusted his orientation, focused on a siege tower approaching the Larsdalen gate and shoved with both his hands and his mind.

The mass of compressed air moved through the space between him and his target with blinding speed, dragging against his clothing as it departed, visible only as a shimmery distortion. It was just subtle enough that it was easy to miss. Air couldn't just be wound up and let go like one could with a ordinarysolid projectile. Morgan had to supply what his father called bio-input, consciously pushing on the air-mass to keep it moving and from immediately diffusing again. He released moments before impact, protecting himself from the quantum reverberation that would have knocked him backward several meters. He'd only made that mistake once during his training and the several-hour recovery time--complete with headache, blurred vision, tinnitus, and dizziness--had made an indelible impression upon him.

Morgan heard the loud bang from the force of impact. It was muffled by the distance, but still satisfying enough to draw a smile on the young mage's face. He gathered more air, held it for a moment, then shoved as before, the second hit leaving the tower even more twisted. One more should do it...gather, gather, hold...shove. The tower went over with the screech of bending, twisting metal.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Markl gather air and shove it forward. Moments later, the arm of a trebuchet shattered mid-swing with a loud CRACK-CRUNCH, splinters of wood flying everywhere. Its load flew backward and killed several men before the semi-free remainder of the eight-inch-thick beam came crashing down and killing several more as screams of pain and fear floated across the field.

Markl flinched. He and Morgan exchanged knowing glances. Clearly his father was right, that the taking of sentient life did something to a person. If he himself had killed people in his first strike...or in any of the subsequent ones...he wasn't sure he really wanted to know about it.

Morgan pulled in more air and tightened it up, focusing more on his next target, a Protectorate spear-thrower. He shoved and watched as its wooden frame splintered into kindling. He chose another target, then changed his mind as that one burst into flame...apparently the work of the Fitzherberts. He changed his mind again as the crew of another fled before a pair of lothnellir. He finally chose another siege tower and slammed another air-mass into its base. That was enough to bend its frame into an immobile state, rendering the tower useless. He targeted a trebuchet, its arm at rest. As he'd hoped, the crew scattered as the beam came crashing down, tearing from its fulcrum with loud cracking sounds.

More soldiers began to converge on their position as the source of the magical attack became evident. The archers covering Morgan and Markl were good, but the eight of them were outnumbered at least ten-to-one.  


“Totarelimi fosiworhak,” stay on the engines, said Markl, “Sukombritos midorthal,” I'll deal with the men. He made several wide, vigorous swirling motions with his arms and pushed forward. Bits of grass and debris flew upward in a circular pattern, marking the path of the small, but intense, cyclone he pushed toward their enemies. He pulled it back a little as it reached them and focused, drawing more air to it. He heated up the ground a little to help with the rotation. It was working, but took a lot of concentration. It would have been much easier and much stronger in warmer weather. Markl swept it back and forth, men spinning around like tops until the cyclone collapsed, leaving its targets staggering like drunkards for a few moments until their feet gave out from under them. He smiled as he watched for a moment as they flopped about like stranded fish.

Morgan glanced over mid-draw and saw that there were still another fifty men rushing at them with swords drawn, pike and crossbow leveled. He panicked and shoved. What happened next seemed to progress in slow-motion. The half-dome of deformed air hurtled toward the onrushing soldiers, but Morgan barely had time to let go and by then it was too late. It slammed into them so hard, their bodies spread out like human pancakes, accompanied by a dull bang from those wearing plate armor. Any screams they made were pushed back into their throats. Their eyes ruptured shortly before blood spurted from their ears. As their compressed bodies jolted backward, their sides split open, their spilled blood and entrails mostly contained in their clothing.

Morgan promptly dropped to his hands and knees and vomited. He barely noticed that the remainder of the enemy had skidded to a stop as they quickly back-pedaled into an attempted retreat.

* * *

Norman Arminger leaned on the table in his make-shift war room as before, looking over the pieces on his map as though it were a pre-Change game of Risk. Rapid boot-steps on the wooden porch caught his attention. He looked up to see a man-at-arms burst through the door, out of breath and alarm written all over his face.

“My Lord Protector,” he panted, “Sir, they're beating us back.”

“What?” said Arminger.

“I know, Sir. We just sent in the Molallans and...well...they've been swatted like so many flies...Sir.”

Arminger resisted the urge to sigh. He hated surprises, though he figured it was probably Corvallis, which he'd anticipated. Their presence would make victory more difficult...no, he corrected himself, just less easy. It had only been five minutes, but he also knew the tide of battle could change very quickly and for a variety of reasons.

“How many do they have?” he said impatiently.

“Six, sir...well, six on the main field.”

“Six divisions? Divisions of what?”

“That's just it, my Lord...just six people and their mounts.”

Arminger raised an eyebrow. “You're telling me Molalla's being beaten by an additional six men?”

“No, Sir. Someone's raised a fire-wall...and an ice wall...and those six people by themselves are beating Molalla.”

“That's impossible.”

“Yes, Sir...but nevertheless....”

“Show me,” growled the Lord of Portland.

The man led the way out onto the porch and then up onto a wagon that was serving as a look-out. Another man handed Arminger a set of field glasses before he'd even asked. He raised them to his eyes and surveyed the field.

“What the hell are those?” He had a bad feeling about it.

“No one knows, my Lord,” said the man who'd handed him the glasses, “but they're kicking our asses...Sir. And there's more...um...twitchiness among the siege units. They're being literally ripped apart by something invisible.”

Norman swung the field glasses toward Larsdalen in time to watch balistas, treubuchets, and siege towers being smashed and splintered seemingly all by themselves. He scowled. “Send in everything,” he barked, “you too, Conrad!” he added turning to the Grand Constable. “This ends now!”

Motion caught his eye and he looked over in time to see the throwing arm of another of his trebuchets go crashing to the ground like a felled tree.

“End them!” he shouted.

“Don't we...”

“I want their heads on pikes and I want it now!” He was almost screaming. “I don't want to see any of you again until it's done! I still have ten thousand men here! Get it done!” At that, he jumped off the wagon and stormed back inside.

* * *

Emiliano Gutierez, Baron Dayton, pointed his sword at one of the large animals barreling across the field. “I said, bring it down!” he bellowed at his men-at-arms.

“But, my lord...”

“You idiot!” He moved his horse over toward the other man's. “Who's your liege lord?”

“You are, sir.”

“What's that?”

“You are, sir,” said the man louder.

“I can't hear you!”

“ _YOU ARE, SIR!_ ”

“That's better. Now get them! And if you really need to know how it's done...” He spurred his horse straight to a gallop and made straight toward the nearest of the unidentified beasts. It had its back to him, which was just as well.

Emiliano adjusted his shield and prepared to strike a stabbing blow. He identified what looked like several weak spots—gaps in the armor, areas entirely unprotected—which given the overall size of the animal, were actually relatively few and far between. But they were there. He came up on its left and stabbed straight toward a gap between its neck and back armor. The animal still hadn't moved. Just before Emiliano's sword connected, he realized, too late, why.

The beast suddenly dropped to the ground and the Baron's sword bit air. He saw, in what limited peripheral vision his helm afforded him, the animal rising back up. It had apparently been aware of his advance and had been waiting for him. His horse suddenly squealed, stopped, and pitched over, plowing head-first into the ground.

Emiliano barely had time to free himself from the stirrups, allowing himself to be thrown from the saddle. He executed a controlled crash, somersaulting in a painful clatter of armor. He righted himself as quickly as he could and immediately looked around to gain the situational awareness necessary of a warrior in battle. He turned just in time to see his squealing horse silenced as the armored monster stomped on its head, bits of brain and bone squirting out onto the ground from around the now-twisted and bloody chamfron.

The Baron strode toward it, sword at the ready. He closed on it, then faltered momentarily as he locked eyes with it. It stared straight at him in a way that reminded him very much of the way the tiger he'd hunted last fall had done. There was something else behind those eyes, though, something he'd swear was...no, that was impossible. It couldn't possibly be... _thinking_...could it?

He pushed the thought from his mind and brought himself back to the matter at hand. He struck at the animal's arm, which it deftly moved. It looked back at him as if to say, “Seriously? Is that all you have?” In answer to that unspoken question, Emiliano ducked under it, brought his shield up and out to block the animal's other arm. He felt the impact in the way he might have felt a car hitting a deer back when he still had one of those. Ignoring the jarring in his joints and the dull pain in his lungs as he dragged is breath back inward, he thrust his sword upward toward the animal's chest.

He felt a sudden pressure against his shield and the wall of metal and fur abruptly slid out of his line of sight. He then realized it was himself that was moving. The beast had batted him aside like a rag doll. He cartwheeled through the air to fall sprawling on the ground. He picked himself back up, trying to reclaim his wind, his torso burning with the effort. The beast stepped toward him. One step...two...before Emiliano could react, one of the beast's huge feet was coming straight for him. He rolled, but a large claw caught on his armor. He felt the strapping rip, the pressure dislocating his shield shoulder with a dull, slightly crunching pop.

The force rolled him some more, but he managed to stagger to his feet, freeing his shield. There were exactly two things within striking distance he could use to relocate his shoulder: his dead horse; and the creature. The latter was closing rapidly and Emiliano had no choice but to face it. Whatever it was, it had been well-trained...unless...no, that wasn't possible.

He swung at its foot and missed. It reached out for him and he cut at its arm. His sword bounced off its armor and a four-clawed hand grabbed him around the neck and upper shoulders. He screamed as its dagger-tipped fingers sank into his flesh, and even more when it lifted him off the ground, his body weight dragging against the animal's claws. It brought him up to its own eye-level and snorted. It glared at him, made a roaring, bleating, squealing sort of sound. Its smell of its breath was hard to describe, both foul and sweet and slightly of lavender and...mint? Then it hauled back and tossed him.

The claws hurt at least as much coming out as they had going in and he could almost feel his own blood escaping through the holes in his skin. He screamed again as he flew through the air. He hit the ground hard and heard the crunch of bones almost before he felt them. Sharp, stabbing pains in his left leg, right arm, and torso took his breath away. He lay there in agony, his body broken and bleeding. The smell of the ground and the odor of his own blood filled his nostrils and the dark earth grew progressively darker until he was no longer aware of anything.

* * *

Sorshun looked up and saw more men running into the fray, some on foot, some mounted. “Haro! Haro Portland!” they called.

He squinted at them and prepared to receive them. He reached down and picked up the shield dropped by the man he'd just confronted. That man had fought bravely and well and Sorshun suspected things would have gone much differently had he himself been human. He held it up over his head and saw the line of soldiers falter a little. He flipped it down, then hurled it like a discus.

He watched in satisfaction as it hurtled through the air and neatly sliced three men in half, blood spraying outward like a sanguine fan. Maybe it wasn't neatly, Sorshun corrected himself, but it was indeed effective. There was something artistic about spraying blood and the way it glinted in the sunlight, even sunlight diffused through clouds. He took two more steps and caught two thrown javelins, hurling them back at the enemy, both embedding themselves in horses.

A squeal from across the field caught his attention. He saw, through the fire and smoke and horses and chaos, one of his own—Leihara, no less—surrounded by spear-men. What was she doing? She knew how to handle that. The squeal rose higher, a clear note of genuine fear in it that Sorshun thought even the humans could recognize.

Sorshun lit off across the field. A block of pike-men tried to re-arrange themselves. He lowered his head to their chest level and charged. He felt the impact and heard the thud of horn on metal, the screams of pain and terror, and saw their bodies flying through the air as he plowed through them, scattering them like snapped trees in the path of a volcanic eruption. Cross-bow bolts bounced off his armor and one stuck in a space between plates. He snapped it off and kept going, interrupting the flurry of activity as the men who'd fired tried in vain to re-span their weapons before he was on them. He was barely aware of the few he kicked and scattered as he burst through them and the further chaos as their weapons burst into flame behind him.

A line of horses approached on an angular intercept course, shouting, “Haro!” Sorshun bellowed a challenge in return. The riders seemed to falter, but it was too late. Rather than changing course, Sorshun ran right over them. He vaulted into the air and planted his left foot on the shoulder of the first horse. His right foot came up and slammed down onto the rider's shield, his weight driving it back into its bearer, armor bending, joint and spine flexing in ways they shouldn't. He released the left one, leaving bloody holes in the screaming horse and stepped onto the next rider, compressing the man's spine and rupturing several internal organs. He landed squarely on the rump of the third horse, its rear legs buckling and kicked its rider's head clean off as his left leg swung forward, the gushing blood plastering his flank.

Tearing more flesh from that animal as he dismounted, he came down hard onto the ground, slid a little, and continued to charge through the enemy. They'd have had an easier time stopping two rhinoceros, three hippopotami and an elephant than they would him.

A scream of pain caught his attention and he stopped almost mid-stride. He looked to see his alsklinga with a spear sticking out of her side. Why weren't those things on fire yet? He took a deep breath and let out a loud bellow of rage and terror, then resumed his charge. He blindly trampled everything in his path, heedless of the blades and bolts bouncing off--or in a few cases biting into--his armor. One or two of them came perilously close to his face, but he barely noticed. His one thought was getting to Leihara.

Sorshun careened into the circle of soldiers surrounding Leihara. He laid into them with savage fury, stomping them into the ground. A few tried to flee, but he snatched them up off their feet and slammed them into what was left of the turf. He continued circling, his feet trampling the bodies of the soldiers who'd hurt his alsklinga until there was nothing left but a bloody mixture of ruddy, sludgy mud, pulverized bone, and twisted metal. He tilted his head back and howled.

* * *

Howl and his accompanying archers stepped from the trees where they'd been hiding with the help of Howl's camouflage spell. They loosed a few arrows to get the enemy's attention. The response was more than Howl had expected and somewhat overkill, in his not-so-humble opinion.

He watched as thousands of horses, pike, and cross-bow began to move across the field directly at him. He figured it was coincidence, for the signal from Neil had been in response to Arminger's command to commit the rest of his troops... _all_ of them. Howl focused as men and horses broke into a run.

“Face Gervais! Face death!” they yelled.

Gee, thought Howl, how original. He held his hands up, palms outward. “Face _this_!” he growled and thrust his hands forward, abruptly stopping them as though slapping a wall.

The oncoming mass of enemy soldiers suddenly stopped as well, as though they'd run smack up against an invisible wall. Even at a distance of over two hundred yards, Howl could hear the noise of crashing and thudding armor and bodies as they ran into his magical force-field and into each other in the pre-industrial equivalent of a thousand-car pile-up. He felt the vibrations of breaking bone and tearing connective tissue ripple across the energy connecting him to his spell and he shuddered. Releasing the field, he watched the pile of men and horses further collapse into a thoroughly disorganized heap.

His archers loosed arrows at them. While the enemy was still just at the very end of a conventional bow's effective range, Howl helped with a gentle push. A dozen archers wouldn't do much from a tactical standpoint, but it would still be annoying to the enemy to be pricked by arrows while trying to untangle themselves. Howl smiled in a self-satisfied way and watched as the enemy reorganized—which they did with a surprising amount of alacrity--and resumed the charge. Howl again executed the wall spell with similar, though this time less-damaging, results, and again the enemy untangled themselves and kept coming, apparently undeterred.

Howl swore under his breath. He'd have to use the spell he called the Jackhammer. Normally, it was reserved for shattering rock during ore-extraction. It had a maximum range of slightly over five hundred yards, which was always needed in full due to the hazards presented by rapidly-flying rock. He could control the width of the effect, but at the cost of range. He'd have to spread it out to slightly over one-twenty degrees. Even then, it would still be lethal to any living thing at chest-height within the target zone.

Howl pulled two frying pans from pouches he wore at his sides. Like those wielded by the Fitzherberts, they were made of an alloy of iron, titanium, lutetium, vanadium, molybdenum, cobalt, manganese, beryllium and iridium. To his own he'd also added tantalum, gadolinium, holmium, thorium, and a very high percentage of ingarium. Most of the elements he'd extracted himself with great effort from the metamorphic rocks buried deep beneath the Strawberry volcanics and the adjacent Clarno and John Day Formations. He'd also spent a considerable amount of time and effort on the research-and-development necessary to synthesize ingarium—called asilehaharanu (light-metal) by the Ingarians--the rare element that had comprised the rings of Ingary and curiously absent in the Sol system. The complex alloy that comprised his own pans acted as a transceiver for the dark energy that occupied the sub-microscopic spaces between atoms. The metal hummed slightly and glowed with an eerie, slightly ruddy, blue-green hue. Any tool composed of the material would, in the hands of a skilled and powerful mage such as Howl, be the equal of Mjolnir in the hands of Thor. He tipped his head backward. “Fosodothana!“ Get down! He bellowed.

The archers on his flank immediately took a knee and, turning their bows to the horizontal, continued loosing arrows.

Howl focused his mind. The enemy was at a hundred yards and closing rapidly. He pressed the bottoms of the pans against each other and rubbed them together in a circular motion. Within seconds, sparks and minor pseudo-electrical arcs jumped outward from between them. He pulled them apart, raising one pan just over his head and lowering the other to near his knees, their bottoms facing each other. Energy arced between them, the bright light shimmering and fluctuating back and forth along the visible spectrum. He held them there while they tried to pull back against each other as they began to hum with a low-but-rising, malevolent-sounding growl. When they'd reached the desired pitch he'd learned to recognize after years of application, he swept the two pans toward each other, banging their bottoms together.

For a moment, nothing happened. Then a bright green light flashed between the pans. A horizontal fan of shimmering, blue-ish, crystalline energy, occupying a space barely five microns thick, erupted outward and lanced toward the enemy, accompanied by a loud, sharp, metallic reverberation that some might still remember as something akin to an electric guitar riff. The energy blade neatly sliced through everything at chest height within an eighty-yard radius, then quickly dissipated. It still took a second for the effect to be realized.

For an instant, none of the Protectorate soldiers charging Howl knew what had happened. Then the laws of Newtonian mechanics went to work. He looked on in horror as, even though he'd known what the result would be, men and horses and equipment hinged neatly apart, blood spraying everywhere. An immense fountain of blood sprayed up as though some sanguine volcano were disgorging its contents. Screams rose almost as one from over three thousand human and equine throats and filled the valley, bouncing off the hills, a deafening death wail that would have curdled a banshee's blood. It was the most hideous sound Howl had ever heard in his life and one he fervently prayed never to hear again for the rest of eternity. It hung in the air for several minutes, diminishing as men and horses lay dying, their bodies cleanly cloven and their life draining out onto the field.

Howl dropped his pans, doubled over, and vomited. He'd taken sentient life before, but never on that scale. Even as he emptied his stomach onto the grass in front of him, he fervently prayed to whomever listened to such things that his son would be spared the soul-bruising effects of life-taking.

* * *

Norman Arminger paced back and forth beside the table on which the map of the Larsdalen war-field was spread. Every now and then, he reached over and moved a marker.

“Now, when we get through with those jokers...” He snorted derisively. “Six riders...ridiculous...” he muttered. After a moment, he looked up sharply and in the direction of the main field. “And what the hell is all that noise?”

Sandra looked up and raised an eyebrow. “Really? You're telling me you don't recognize screaming? I'd have thought you intimately familiar with that particular sound. You've caused it often enough.”

He eyed his wife. “Very funny.” Then he looked back in the direction of the screaming. “But not like that.” Something unsettling rose up in the back of his mind, the same spider sense that always told him something was wrong...very wrong. He'd felt it the night of the Change. He'd felt it again when those two girls had come barging into his throne room. He felt it now...only now it was screaming at him.

The door burst open and Conrad Renfrew stumbled into the room. He was covered with blood, far too much for it to be all his own. There was so much of it, in fact, that Norman initially didn't recognize his Grand Constable. The man's eyes were so wide, they looked like they might pop clear out of his skull. He cradled his shield arm.

“N...N...Norman,” he stammered, out of breath.

“Conrad? What the hell happened?”

“We...we have...a problem,” he panted.

“You're going to have to be more specific.” Normal almost growled it.

“We're doomed.”

Normal rolled his eyes. “Bullshit. We outnumber them by at least a factor of ten. How can we...”

“You don't understand!” Conrad shrieked, his voice carrying real fear for the first time in as long as Norman could remember. He dragged more air into his lungs. “They...they came out of nowhere. With fire...and ice...and...and magic.”

“Dammit, Conrad, there's no such thing as magic!”

Conrad shook his head slowly. “You're wrong. They cut us off...from the Bearkillers and them...and then broke us. Don't ask me how.”

Norman's eyes narrowed. “But how many?” he asked, keeping his composure.

“A...hundred...maybe.”

“What?!”

“That's what I'm trying to tell you!” Conrad wailed. “A hundred people came out of nowhere and beat us!”

“Inside twenty minutes?” Norman growled.

“YES!!” Conrad shrieked.

They were interrupted by a commotion out in the courtyard. There was yelling, some screaming, and the bleating howl of some animal Norman didn't recognize. It made his hair stand up on end.

Conrad looked over his shoulder. “Oh, shit...”

Suddenly, the door exploded inward with a loud cracking sound, splinters of it flying all over the place. Norman could briefly see a large, three-toed foot, bearing large claws, that clearly belonged to the even larger, dark shape that blocked the light that would otherwise have shone through the doorway.

Norman and the three armed guards in the room drew their blades. Conrad didn't move. If anything, he seemed to deflate. “Conrad...” said Norman.

“We should surrender,” said Conrad, almost too quietly to hear.

“Surrender, my ass.”

The shadow withdrew and two women entered the room. One of them Norman recognized as Sophia. Both wore German-style plate armor, quartered purple and red, with yellow markings that Norman would have attempted to blazon had he not been otherwise distracted.

“What's the meaning of this?” barked Norman, even as he somehow knew the answer.

Sophia regarded Conrad and giggled slightly. “You're all wet,” she said casually.

Conrad whimpered.

“Dammit, Conrad,” Arminger growled, “where's your sword.”

“Melted,” Conrad replied in near-monotone.

The guards moved forward, but froze as the other woman pointed her pan at them. “Oh, I wouldn't if I were you,” she said brusquely.

“You didn't yield,” said Sophia. “We told you so.”

“What?” said Sandra.

“Norman and Sandra Arminger, Conrad Renfrew” continued Sophie, “for crimes committed against humanity, by the authority granted to me by Her Majesty the Queen, and with a goodly amount of personal satisfaction, I hereby place y'all in the custody of the court and declare you both to be my prisoners.”

“You and what army?” growled Norman.

“The one with which we just wiped the field with yours,” she replied flatly. “Our little display back in Portland was but the tip of the iceberg. Your man here is terrified and for very good reason. Do you feel that?”  
Norman was presently aware of a spike of heat deep in the shoulder of his sword arm.

“That's my mind on your main brachial nerve. I can, and will, fry it, rendering that arm completely and permanently paralyzed. It's over, Norman. One way or another, you're coming with us. Resistance is futile.”

Norman considered the woman's words for a moment, then abruptly turned and charged toward the back door of the building. He'd scarcely taken two steps, when a wall of flame leapt up in front of him, forcing him to skid to a stop.

“I don't believe that's in a with-us-like direction,” said Sophia sternly.

The flame moved, forcing Norman backward. He looked at his guards. “What do I pay you for? Get them!”

The men stepped forward again, and again the other woman brandished her pan at them. “What did I say?” she said curtly. All three men paused, looked at their Lord, then at the two pan-wielding women. They charged. They were on the floor so fast, Norman wasn't altogether sure what had happened and briefly wished they still had instant replay post-Change. “I think they'll recover,” said the woman.

“Conrad,” Norman growled.

Conrad simply sank to his knees and placed his hands atop his head.

Sophia sighed. “Like I said, you're coming with us, resistance is futile. _Don't_ make me say it again.”

Norman lunged at them himself, his swordsman's skills taking over. He felt two things. First, a sharp, burning pain in his shoulder, followed by a complete loss of feeling in that arm, save for a brisk tug at his shoulder, and the sound of his sword hitting the floor. Then he felt a shooting, white-hot pain in his head that he recognized as a blunt blow. Even as his consciousness slipped from him, he heard the sound of another object hitting something and Sandra's muffled cry of pain.

* * *

Mike Havel sat his horse, Will Hutton on his own just a couple of yards away. Both men stared at the battlefield, weapons resting across their saddle horns, watching the carnage unfolding before them. 

Now and then, small groups of Protectorate soldiers clawed their way onto shaky legs, lurched awkwardly across the ice sheet, then scurried frantically through the few gaps in the ice wall and between blocks of Bearkiller and MacKenzie fighters. It was actually quite comical in an America's Funniest Home Videos sort of way.

He heard Juniper yell, “Hold!” then watched as a few more of the large, bipedal animals appeared from the woods, each accompanied by two or three people. Mike guessed they must be handlers, though he wasn't sure he wanted to know what sort of person could handle an animal like that. The Protector's men skidded to a halt and surrendered. He watched it happen over and over—a small knot of men, or scattered individuals, always on foot—escaped from the field and tried to flee the area, only to be intercepted by one of the animals, then surrender.

Mike gazed over the ice wall at a vast expanse of ice, a vast expanse of baked earth strewn with the remains of men and horses. Some had apparently been cut down by a weapon or one of those strange beasts; others were merely charred skeletons or piles of ash. Mike shuddered. He really didn't want to be on the bad side of anyone who could do _that_ to an army of over ten thousand with what couldn't possibly have been more than a couple of hundred.

Small knots of men peppered the field, men who appeared to be on their knees with their hands folded behind their heads before a person or one of those beasts. Others simply lay on the ground, though at that distance, Mike couldn't tell if they were dead, unconscious, or merely lacked the skill to maneuver across ice or the impulse to try. At least _someone_ had had the good sense to surrender in the face of that.

Juniper MacKenzie trotted up on foot from one direction, Eric Larson on horseback from the other.

“What the hell was all _that_?!” said the younger man.

“I think we won,” said Juniper, a tone of surprise and awe in her voice.

“Is that what you saw?” said Mike.

“Well...yes.”

“That's kind of what I saw, too,” said Will.

“Naw,” said Mike, “I saw someone _else_ come charging in out of nowhere and take control of the field and _else_ won. We were getting our asses thoroughly kicked and you all know it.”

“I ain't about to argue with the results, Mike.”

Their conversation was interrupted by a strong wind and a gathering cloud above them. A column of bright, multicolored light suddenly appeared, slamming onto the bed of Zena Road, accompanied by a loud, hollow, shrieking howl and hissing, staticky sounds. Mike thought he saw something move inside it. Moments later, it vanished as suddenly as it had come. A knot of a couple dozen people with strange-looking pack animals and various bags, small carts and two large wagons stood on the asphalt, seeming to have appeared from out of nowhere. Something told Mike that their arrival had something to do with that light show, but he had no idea how.

Several of the large, bipedal animals ran up to the newest arrivals, a couple of them with people on their backs. A short meeting seemed to take place, and then they scattered in all directions, quickly dispersing about the field. Mike watched as they darted from spot to spot, seemingly unconcerned with the slippery surface that still coated the battlefield. Now and then, a few escorted Protectorate soldiers—apparently having surrendered and then been pressed into service doing labor--picked someone off the ground and placed them onto a cart, or one of those beasts did. It was hard to tell for sure what they were doing, but it sure looked a lot like triage and clean-up.

“Now what the hell was _that_?” said Mike, “Who they hell are _they_ , how the hell did they get here and what the hell are they doing?”

“I have no idea,” said Will, shaking hid head slowly.

“Why don't I go find out?” offered Juniper.

“Yeah,” Mike replied pensively. “You do that. You're a much better people person than I am anyway. I'd just erupt into a torrent of what-the-hells.”

Juniper trotted off in the direction of the nearest one of the apparent fire-people and Mike turned back to Will.

“I guess we're done with these,” he said with a shrug, brandishing his sword. He wiped it off and slid it back into its scabbard.

“I s'pose so.”

“And I guess we're not as screwed as we though, huh, Mike?” said Eric optimistically.

“Well, the jury's still out on that...at least until we know who they are and what they want. I'll settle for that for now.” Mike noticed more movement over by their own hospital tents. A few of the horned beasts, their accompanying humans and a couple of the people who'd arrived via the light beam were converging on them. “Oh, hell.”

“Mike!” Mike turned to see Pamela riding up to him and she seemed to be in a hurry.

“What is it?” Whatever it was, he had a very bad feeling about it.

“It's Mary,” she said, her voice nearly panicked. “She...Mike, she's dying...now.”

Mike's eyes went wide. “Will!” he barked. “You're in charge. You know the clean-up routine,” he said, even as he turned his horse. “Eric,” he added, “go find out what they're doing at our field hospitals, but _please_ , whatever you do, _don't_ do anything to piss them off.”

“Come on, Mike, you know me.”

“That's what I'm saying.” He spurred his horse up to a gallop and lit out toward home, Pamela closely behind him.


	2. Chapter 2

Monmouth, Oregon  
March 9

Signe Havel rode near the head of the Corvallan column marching north along Pacific Highway West, the sinking sun still mostly obscured by the patchy clouds typical of an early spring day in western Oregon. She'd traveled to Corvallis in search of what passed for advanced medical help in the Changed world. A Dunedain messenger had arrived shortly after she herself had, bearing word of the impending invasion. Signe had wanted to return home immediately, but her companions had insisted that she seek the help for Mary for which she'd made the journey. They'd also insisted that she wait for military escort. If nothing else, they reasoned that Mike would want to know what help he could expect from Corvallis.

It had taken a frustrating amount of time for the Corvallans to assemble a force. She'd been prepared for a certain amount of the sort of bickering and indecision that seemed to be inherent in Corvallis' participatory democracy. She hadn't expected the decision to be tied up in committee for the better part of a week. Every passing day had made her more and more restless. Everyone had told her that she alone wouldn't make an appreciable difference. She'd known in her head that they were right, but it hadn't made her feel any better. She'd at least taken some consolation in that the extra time had enabled her to track down the best pediatrician in Corvallis, arguably in all of Oregon, a man who also specialized in autoimmune disorders, which had been Aaron Rothman's best guess as to what was wrong with Signe's daughter. In the end, the Faculty Senate had authorized individuals to assist on a voluntary basis. The result had been roughly two thousand volunteers heading to face the Protectorate army.

Major Peter Jones of the Corvallis Militia rode beside her, also on horseback, as they passed through Monmouth. Home of the now-deceased Western Oregon University, it had, in many respects, been a much smaller version of Corvallis on the eve of the Change. It had been unfortunately close to Salem and had been overrun with refugees. It was still anyone's guess as to whether it would have otherwise been organized in the way Corvallis had been. Half the Corvallans had just peeled off toward Independence. They would follow the Independence Highway to the ruins of West Salem and thence north along Wallace Road to Larsdalen.

The remainder of the convoy was to continue along Pacific Highway, cross the Eola Hills on Zena Road, and hit the Protectorate army in something resembling a pincer movement. The Corvallans would have the high ground and forest shelter and Arminger would be forced to fight a battle on two fronts.

While the Allies would still be woefully outnumbered, Jones had to believe that Arminger would, if hit hard enough and fast enough, be knocked just enough off-balance to go back home and regroup. It would do little to significantly change the overall political situation in the Willamette Valley, but it was widely whispered that if the Protectorate continued to hemorrhage populace, it wouldn't be able to support its own war machine.  
Peter could sense Signe's unease. Considering that he'd never been a man to pick up on such things easily, that was saying a lot about the Bear Lady's state of mind. She started to speak, but he interrupted her.

“For the last time, Missus Havel, I'm well aware that Mike needs your sword, that your children are at risk, and that you think we're dragging our feet. But might I remind you...again...that we must all arrive with the strength for a prolonged knock-down, drag-out fight with Portland and _you're ___not in armor. But you do have a point.” He turned around to look back at his men. “Let's pick up the pace just a little, shall we, ladies and gentlemen?”

Both horse and bicyclist hastened noticeably, but barely to Signe's satisfaction. Soon they pulled away from town, passing the junction with Hoffman Road. A green sign still directed phantom motorists to the Independence State Airport and a set of traffic lights still hung on wires over the road, dark testaments to a vanished civilization.

A motion in Signe's upper peripheral vision caught her attention. She gazed skyward to see a thin ribbon of multicolored light streaking southward across the sky like a rainbow contrail. It appeared to pass a thousand feet above their heads and gave off a faint whooshing sound. All eyes joined hers. No one had time to do more than start murmuring before it was gone.

“What the hell was that?” she asked.

“I have no idea,” said Jones, “but I've never seen anything like it before in my life...not in person, nor in any image. And thanks to the Change, we can't even take any readings or get onto the Internet or call NOAA or anything.”

“And it's the third one of those we've seen today,” added Signe. “I have a very bad feeling about it.”

“We're still camping at Rickreall,” said Peter. “I'd like to keep going myself, but Rickreall Creek is the most reliable and accessible water between here and Larsdalen. Not only that, it's far enough from the field of action that Arminger is less likely to notice our presence. There's also plenty of non-farmland so we won't be trampling anyone's food supply.”

“What about those...ribbons? Two of them touched down...”

“Yes, yes,” interrupted Jones impatiently. “They hit north of here, one maybe near Larsdalen. If it's some form of lightning...”

“Lightning?” Signe interrupted back, the edge still in her voice. “Have you ever seen lightning that looks like that?”

“Uh...no,” admitted Peter, “No, I haven't. Whatever it was, I doubt there's much we can do about it, _especially ___if it has anything to do with whatever agent was responsible for the Change. The question is, can you live with that?”

Signe sighed, then nodded. “Fine,” she said curtly. “It doesn't look like I have much of a choice anyway. But don't expect me to like it.” The remainder of their day passed in silence, the straight, flat road north of Monmouth crawling by at what felt like a snail's pace.

**Author's Note:**

> Ingarium is an element with symbol In and atomic number 126. It is a main group metal in group 14 of the periodic table. Ingarium shows chemical similarities to silicon and germanium. It is absent in the Sol system, and uncommon in the Lirosh system--part of the Betelgeuse system--there being restricted mainly to the ring encircling the planet Ingary. (Note: the Betelgeuse system was destroyed when that star went supernova in Earth year 2007 AD.)
> 
> Ingarium was first discovered by Ingarian magi during the reign of King Fergis-II early in the Klung Dynasty. Its uses were a closely-guarded secret for more than 3,000 years. Today, its many applications are thoroughly documented.
> 
> Ingarium is a semi-malleable and highly crystalline silvery-white metal with a distinctive blue-ish hue. It melts at a very high temperature of 3700 C.
> 
> Ingarium has two phases. Alpha-ingarium is non-metallic, with a cubic crystal structure similar to diamond, silicon and germanium. Beta-ingarium is metallic. It resists corrosion from water and is only moderately susceptible to attack by acids.
> 
> Ingarium has four isotopes. 252-In is the most common and is stable with 126 neutrons. 266-In is radioactive with 140 neutrons and decays to 258-In, also called heavy ingarium. 258-In breaks down to more stable In-248 when exposed to gamma radiation. In-248 can become In-252 in the presence of 266-In by absorbing neutrons. The isotope content of Ingary's rings is in a constant state of flux due to bombardment by stellar winds.
> 
> Ingarium is named after the planet Ingary, the only planet where the element is known to occur.
> 
> Ingarium was discovered by Ingarian magi in the fifth century prior to the First Apocalypse. Magi found meteorites originating in the planet's ring to have unusual properties, mainly the amplification of natural magical abilities. Attempts to consolidate and control such meteorites led to the First Mage War in 357 BFA. The war lasted 70 years by the end of which an estimated 90 percent of all magi and potentials had been killed. The survivors reached a truce and it was only their collaboration that avoided the destruction of Ingary during the First Apocalypse when an errant moon side-swiped the planet, nearly wiping out all life. By that time, ingarium had been either all but forgotten, or vilified.  
> The magic employed to save Ingary and alter the moon's trajectory initiated a quantum reverberation that caused Ingary's ring to phosphoresce, drawing renewed attention to ingarium. The element was shortly thereafter isolated and precipitated an explosion of developments in magical technology, including the interstellar travel that led the first Ingarians to Earth, ushering in what most Ingarian historians regard as a new golden age of Ingary.
> 
> Ingarium is known only from Ingary's ring and from certain deposits on the planet's surface. Those deposits are consistent with material from the ring falling out of orbit as meteorites. Other trace amounts have been identified on Ingary's surface, with the highest concentrations in latitudes below the ring's orbit, a phenomenon consistent with small meteorites burning up and precipitating onto the surface. Since the destruction of the planet (called the Second Apocalypse), ingarium is restricted to a relatively small region within the supernova debris cloud surrounding the remains of the red super-giant Betelgeuse (called Krakanen).
> 
> Historically, ingarium metal has been obtained by isolating it from meteorite formations. Some magi began to magically remove it from Ingary's ring, a practice that had to be regulated in order to avoid the ring's depletion. Since the exodus to Earth, ingarium can only be obtained by synthesizing it from other elements using a very complicated and intensive magical process developed by Master Mage Howl Jenkins Pendragon.
> 
> The applications of ingarium are generally restricted to their use in magic. That generally corresponds to a very wide range of specific uses. Ingarium responds to dark energy, which forms the basis for most magic, thus acting as a dark-energy conduit. It is used in various alloys, paints, and a few other compounds employed in a wide variety of magical tools. Ingarium is so responsive to dark energy, that those with the very lowest-grade magical ability can, with the help of the element, perform magical tasks that would otherwise be beyond them. Preliminary research suggests that ingarium may allow non-magi to use certain magical tools and further attention is being giving to researching that potential. Today, most ingarium is employed in the magic-mirror communication network, which has replaced cell phones, in paints used in the portal-transport system, and in Earth's two Bifrost devices.


End file.
